Botswana Bound Part 2: Kasane to Windhoek

One of the best parts of Peace Corps travel is meeting other Peace Corps Volunteers. That’s partly because they understand the ups and downs of this unique experience. But it’s also because they hold priceless advice for traveling through their country of service on the cheap, and even offer free accommodations to fellow PCVs.

Our final night in Kasane, as Tina, Jeffie B, Ashley, Rachel and I sat around a hightop table planning our next day’s move, a guy from NYC pointed out a fellow PCV standing near the bar with a couple of friends. Unlike most conversations with complete strangers—the ones that leave both parties grasping at straws for a point of interest—we knew from the start we had something in common.

We were all Americans. And better yet, we were all PCVs.

After a few minutes of back story—where we were from, where we were living and our general job descriptions—we mentioned that the following morning we’d be traveling to Maun for a couple of days near the Okavango Delta before heading back to Windhoek via Gobabis.

Our new PCV friend gave us the best route for safe arrival (which included hitch hiking and two buses—one of which traveled along, perhaps, the worst laid road in Southern Africa), as well as the number of a PCV in Maun who was happy to allow other PCVs to camp in her yard.

Six hours, two buses and a few giraffe and zebra later we arrived in Maun. The busy shopping town reminded me a lot of Otjiwarango. We called our new PCV friend—an energetic and artsy grandmother type—who met us at the bus stop and offered to take us out to dinner.

On her.

It was the first of many beyond hospitable things she did for us. Not the least of which included doing our laundry, showing us around, cooking us dinner, and allowing us to stay, free of charge, for four nights in the yard of her location home. Our days were filled with aimless wandering around town and through the nature reserve. Our nights, with family style dinners and fantastic conversation.

Our final night in Maun was also the sixth-month anniversary of our arrival in Namibia. We opted to celebrate with a private sunset boat tour of the Okavango Delta and a night at Back to the Backpackers camping site, just outside of town. (Two luxuries we could afford only because of our hostesses’ generosity.) The accommodations were amazing. Flat, clear patches for pitching tents right next to the river. Hot showers. Delicious (and affordable) food. Even gin and tonics. Plus, an incredible view of the Okavango River.

Rachel and I spent the earlier part of the day learning to weave the traditional baskets of Botswana with guidance from the most patient and kind woman I’ve met. IN additional to inviting tourists and travelers into her home, she travels to local schools and instructs girls on the tradition. She told us even if they did not pass grade ten, they would still have a marketable and moneymaking skill to help them survive. We (wrongly) assumed we’d be walking away, four hours later, with a product similar to those we’d seen displayed at roadside stands: handcrafted palm frans bowls the size of large dinner plates, with intricate designs and spellbinding patterns.

Instead, we returned with “baskets” only the size of coasters. Four hours of knot tying and weaving—it seems—is much harder than it looks.

At 5 pm we piled into a private boat with wine and cheese (two items rarely found in the PCV town, diet or budget, for that matter) and headed towards the delta for sunset. There was little wildlife to be seen, but after the success in Kasane, we were far from disappointed. To be on the much-storied Delta among tall swamp grass and warm, peaceful breezes, made us more than happy.

The next day, mid-afternoon, we said goodbye to Maun and headed back to the bus stop. Our exceptional hostess warned us that the mini bus to Ghanzi could be an experience.

But we wouldn’t know. We never made it on.

After two hours of waiting in the blazing sun, far from any real shade, the mini bus pulled up and a crowd we hadn’t even spotted rushed the doors. Before the vehicle had a chance to slow, let alone stop, women were ripping open the doors and throwing their bodies into seats and aisles. Children were being crushed by the body weight of towering adults, and grown men were throwing women out of the way.

Despite her hefty bag, which she used as a shield, Ashley was left at the wayside. Even my NYC rush-hour subway skills were no match for the ravenous crowd. I was quickly shoved to the side, where I would have toppled over, had my flailing arms not made direct contact with a woman’s chest to catch my balance. Only Jeffie B made it safely inside. But when he realized he was the soul victor of our hard-fought battle, he regretfully unloaded and walked with the rest of us to a hike point a few kilometers away.

The road to Ghanzi is anything but well traveled. We stood together at the roadside and quietly wondered whether we’d ever made it out of Maun. (If the mini bus was an indication—a successful departure seemed unlikely). But less than an hour after dropping our packs and waving our hands, a Mac truck pulled up and offered all five of us a ride.

It was cramped quarters. Five PCVs, a driver, and another passenger, stuffed into the cab of a mammoth mobile. But we were happy to be on our way and not about to complain. We arrived just before dark (with a pit in our stomachs from the thud of a dog we’d hit along the way) and said goodbye to our kind drivers before preparing to set up camp.

In the rain.

There are few things less fun than folding your body into an awkward and uncomfortable position for five hours with a couple of strangers. Pitching a tent in high winds and downpour (particularly when rainy season is supposed to be over) has got to be one of them. Luckily our tents, if not our selves, turned out to be waterproof.

The next morning—after a night of fear that heinous winds might rip our tents from the ground—we were on the road with another Mac trucker.

Namibia bound.